He said yes. (As long as they brought explosives.)

So they met with Hunter at his

Woody Creek compound and spent an evening with him and his then-assistant, eventual wife Anita, talking politics, smoking hash and stealing cigarette holders.

Hunter S. Thompson died last night, at the age of 67, of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. The Black Table commemorates his death by running four stories of our visit with him. (The full archive can be found here.)

***

Hunter, Without Prey
Many of Hunter's friends have tried to get him, a self-described political junkie, to take a hit of this year's drug... It's almost like they're doing an intervention, only instead of cleaning him out, they're trying to cook him up.

Gunplay at Woody Creek
He's distracted, receiving phone calls from people who need no first name: Wenner, Halberstam and Plimpton. Depp visits regularly. Murray's been in touch, too. "I got lots of weird friends, different kinds," he says. "I don't let ideology stand in the way of friendship."

Bedtime for Gonzo
I sat there, reading Hunter S. Thompson to Hunter S. Thompson. This is a most frightening thing. Do I try to make it sound like his voice? Do I do a Hunter S. Thompson impersonation? What if he shoots me?

The Flares
"Ah. This. This is a flare gun," Hunter says, loading and unloading the gun, tossing it from hand to hand. "One time, we were in the harbor and I let her rip and the whole marina comes to a screeching halt. So when you asked me, I dunno, I was just thinking about the big leagues."